


A Wet Encounter

by orphan_account



Series: Two Anxious Wrecks and the Search for a Home [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gender-neutral Reader, Other, Reader has a crush, and so does mr. anxiety, i realized i never really specified a gender, i wanted to write a shippy thing with a female reader but no, if people like me maybe this'll become a series?, just some genderneutral friendship, not really idk, sorta a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 01:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's a cold, early spring Detroit night, and you're out on the streets, shivering, bruised, and desperate for shelter. Dilapidated house after dilapidated house pass you by, until you take a chance on one that looks abandoned and relatively stable. Little did you know that it wasn't as empty as you would think.





	A Wet Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> This was all written between the hours of 11pm and 3am on a few nights, so please point out any errors. I just wanted to put out some more Ralph fic. I'd love to turn this into a series, eventually getting a little on the shippy side? Let me know what you think! I need to go pass out now.
> 
> Edit: I accidentally put the notes as the summary, that's what writing and publishing at 12:32AM will do to you!  
> Edit again: Thank you so much for the response! Do you guys have an opinion for whether to keep the reader gender neutral or if we have a preference? I want to write more but withholding physical description can be tough!

You don’t even remember what drove you from of your tiny, dirty apartment into the street in the first place, instead of to a friends place, but here you are, shivering in the rain and the growing dark, mottled bruises already blossoming on your cheek. You remember who gave you those, of course, your asshole boyfriend-slash-only reason you have a roof over your head. Or had. You’re too tired to care at this point. Some pointless, everyday argument after he got home from work, yelling and punchy about how the damn androids were going to take his position, soon evolved into him berating you for not earning more at your little cashier gig down the street. Then, however, you made the mistake of talking back after he’d had enough beer to ignite his normally volatile anger. Now you were outside, with nothing warmer than your thin jacket, sporting a new ragged rip in it across the hip where you stumbled and fell when he backhanded you hard enough to send you spinning, with nowhere to sleep for the night and the feeling that spending your evening curled up in the alleyway behind your apartment building would most likely end with a knife in your ribs. It started raining too, an icy combination of half rain half sleet, typical for early Detroit spring.

So now you’re peering in through the chain fences of every abandoned house on the block, trying to discern which ones weren’t either occupied or in danger of falling down at the slightest breeze. So far, however, you’ve had no luck, some of the buildings looking so dilapidated you felt uneasy even glancing at them, lest your gaze knock them down, and others that you could swear had shadows in the dirty windows. You nearly even went into one, a small one-story thing, barely a shack, until the too-familiar spicy smell of red ice wafted out from within, and you quickly kept on walking, eventually ending up near your gas station, staring wistfully at the warm interior. At the bland, uncaring stare of your icy-hearted co-worker, however, you move on, shuffling across the street to another long line of abandoned buildings, silently scouting as the sky grows even darker. You’d probably get fired if you showed up loitering not during your hours, especially if management found out you didn’t really have a home address. Even through your pondering, one thought sticks out in your mind, more than all the rest. If you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll freeze.

Even after your scrutiny, most houses you come across all look in various states of disrepair, most too far gone to even be worth considering. You hear the low hum of a truck, the quiet, repetitive movements of some android emptying a dumpster, and cannot help but feel a stab of sympathy. You know they supposedly can’t feel anything and aren’t really conscious, but the concept of having your whole existence, artificial or no, being relegated to picking up someone else’s garbage during the cold, lonely nights leaves a bad taste in your mouth. but the fence of one has been torn, with scraps of green fabric hanging wet in the rain from where they had been caught. It looked old enough that you shrug, and crawl under, your own jacket catching and leaving a few strips of your own behind. You’ve slept worse places, and the roof doesn’t look like it’s caving in, so you brush yourself off, and creep around the exterior, shoes sinking into the muddy remains of a front yard.

The building is old, that much you can tell, with boarded up windows, but when you try the door, it doesn’t budge. A quick peer in between two of the planks gives nothing away, rain-slicked window pane dirty enough to obscure anything from the inside, but it looks empty, and this is enough to rally you. You consider trying to see if there’s another way in, it being just your luck that the only slightly inviting place is locked, and head back around the side. The world is a smear of rain and dilapidated infrastructure, the wooden porch creaks beneath your feet, water oozing up between already sodden boards, and you have to squint to see anything past where the lip of the second story protects you from the downpour. The alleyway is somehow darker than the yard, and you rely more on touch than eyesight, fingers grazing against the side of the building, and you wish suddenly you had had the thought to bring gloves, because, almost instantly, you hiss, as the tell-tale stab of a splinter spikes through your hand. You curse, too loudly, but you are so wrapped up in your own thoughts and worries, that you don’t notice the movement out of the corner of your eye, warped by the rain, or the flash of a red LED, glittering in the darkness.

It is not until you step out from under the cover of the house, halfway around the side, trying to determine whether the shape you see is the slight indent of a door or not, that you are nearly thrown against the opposite wall by a hard, cold arm. “What are you doing here?” You start, badly, at the shove and unexpected voice, more a frightened snarl than anything else, but cannot say anything, as all your breath was knocked out of you from your hard impact. You cannot make out much of a figure, but the one thing you can see makes your stomach sink, the unmistakable red flicker of a dangerous android’s LED.

“Who are you?” The voice, male, nervous and high-strung, jumps an octave, “You’re here to hurt Ralph too, aren’t you?” The android moves, and although you cannot see well, you are now very, very aware of the glint of metal in front of you. In the dim light, you can make out little, a cheekbone, strangely mottled in its coloring, rain-slicked skin and hair, a dark eye, but not enough to make out any prominent features. He shakes you, once, and your brain is knocked back from dumb staring into a normal panic mode, and potential words and curses tumble around in your head. Although normally you’d kick and bite and scream, android or no, you don’t take shit from assholes in alleyways, you’ve already taken one beating today, and the knife pressed close to your breastbone is shaking hard enough that you try to keep your voice level, reaction to a minimum.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here!” The suggestion of an eyebrow furrows even more. “I’m not here to hurt you, Ralph, I’m hurt and I’m hiding from someone, that’s why I’m out here,” you tilt your head, letting the bruising and cut be seen a little better in the light from the faraway streetlamp. This seems to give him—Ralph—pause, the knife lowering slightly, LED flickering from red to yellow.

“Humans—the humans hurt you too?” You pause, the phrasing putting you off, but before you can continue, he begins to speak again. “We’re the same, see? This is what the humans did to Ralph,” he leans closer, and you recoil slightly at the sight. The entire left side of his face is dripping with blue blood—thirium—seeping out from looks like a mottled mass of burned skin, left eye swimming with it, rendering the sclera and iris of his eye a shockingly dark and lovely sapphire. The damage seems recent, although you're not that familiar with the logistics of if and how androids heal. It could be weeks old for all you know. The hand that is gripping the knife—a common, household butcher blade—is damaged too, skin fading to show the hard grey plastic underneath. Your own injuries seem light in comparison, bruises and maybe a twisted ankle, and you cannot help but feel sympathetic towards him, scared and seemingly alone, beaten by his masters or some cruel vagrants. The similarity between your situations makes your heart twinge.  
“Ralph, I’m—I’m so sorry.” You mean it, that sort of prejudice and hate is common, the vitriol your boyfriend had just been spouting fresh in your mind. “I promise I mean you no harm, I just need a warm place to stay.” You see the moment he realizes you are shivering, where whatever programming in his head ticks through the fact that you are human and that you need shelter and warmth to stay alive, as his LED turns blue, shoulders uncurling, although the tell-tale twitching remains.

“Would you—would you like to stay here? With Ralph?” His eyes shift to his knife, and he pockets it, wiping off some of the stray thirium on his poncho. “You must excuse Ralph. He still finds it difficult to control himself. Sometimes his fear makes him do things he regrets. Ralph—I—won’t hurt you. I promise.” He tries to smile, but what with the thirium and the long gash it comes off more threatening than anything, but you can feel the harmless intent behind it.

“Okay, then. I’ll stay. Thank you, Ralph, it’s very generous of you to let me stay here.” You smile at him, even though it strains the split lip and bruises, and you swear his eyes crinkle a little at the gesture.

“Great!” He grabs your hand, slippery with thirium and rain, and you nearly trip on the uneven ground as he continues on towards the front door. “Come on, this is great!” The sudden shift of mood sends you reeling more than the sudden movement, and sets your nerves on edge, but currently, you figure that opting to not piss of the android with the knife is your best bet. And it’s almost sweet, in its own way, like an overeager puppy. “Ralph has lived here since he ran away, he never goes outside, so no one knows he is here!” The front door opens with a hearty shove, revealing the dark, and, frankly filthy interior, with graffiti peppering the walls and piles of paper and fabric decorating the corners. A light from upstairs partially illuminates the space, making it seem just a slight bit more home-like than the alley outside.  
Now that you aren’t being blinded by the rain and light from upstairs somewhere is pouring down the staircase, you get your first good look at your newfound host. He is tall, although you yourself don’t exactly have anything to brag about in the height department, with dark, leaning towards auburn, blonde hair. His undamaged eye is warm hazel, and even with the wound, you have to admit, he isn’t hard on the eyes. You can’t blame Cyberlife for deciding to seemingly make all of their androids attractive, and you certainly aren’t complaining now. The sight of a fireplace, even dark and empty, already has you feeling warmer, and you have to tear yourself away from fantasizing about starting a blazing fire to keep listening to Ralph’s almost shy babbling. “It’s very safe, you don’t have to worry about getting found while you’re here. Even if squatters come, you can hide until they leave, Ralph does it all the time!” He lapses into an awkward silence, and, realizes that he is still holding your hand. You swear that a faint blue blush rises to his cheeks as he extricates his fingers from yours, but you aren’t sure you can trust your own eyes anymore. He gazes around nervously, wringing his hands and twitching, taking in your sopping clothing and shivering form.  
“Can Ralph do anything for you?” You bite your lip, on one hand you absolutely do not want to give him orders, because apart from the fact that it seems rude to do when you are a guest, but it as it seems he obviously has been traumatized by a human in the past and taking advantage of that, even though you’ve known him for all of ten minutes, would make you feel beyond shitty. You nod, slowly, looking around yourself, noting anything that would be useful.  
“Do you think you could get a fire going? I need to get dry before I catch something. I’ll look around for something to change into if that’s alright?” He momentarily worries his lip, before nodding, and turning away from you, hurrying into the other room, before returning with some crumpled paper and a lighter.

“I think the humans that lived here left some clothing upstairs,” he mutters over his shoulder, “and if they didn’t, you can have Ralph’s coat,” gesturing to the muddy, wet poncho he is wearing, “once it dries.” He smiles again, the prospect of caring for something seemingly catching alight something inside of him, before turning back to the growing fire, feeding it slim pieces of wood.

Climbing the stairs takes longer than you would like to admit.

Once you reach the top, you can hear the crackle of the fire down below, and some disjointed humming, so you hurry into the room that seemed to, at one point, have been the bedroom. Pushing open the closet, you are met only with a shabby jacket and some jeans, and you move to the small dresser, hoping to have a slightly warmer option. To your luck, under a shirt that even the most strange of your uncles wouldn’t wear, is a soft cream sweater, and drawstring pants. Using the awful shirt as a pseudo-towel you manage to dry off a little, squeezing some water out of your hair, and peel off your drenched clothing. You salvage a mismatched pair of socks from the bottom drawer, and although your skin is still cold and damp, after changing you are pleasantly warmer than before. In the next room, you poke your head into you are delighted to find a comforter, seemingly missed by the people that picked over the place before you. The mattress you consider for a good moment, before deciding that you are neither willing to drag it downstairs, nor try to not imagine what the strange stains on it are.

By the time you arrive downstairs, there is already a small nest of blankets and a ratty pillow waiting at the fire, crackling cheerfully, with a dripping poncho hanging nearby. Your cheeks warm at the sight, the care Ralph had put into it evident by the careful placement. You place your own clothing next to it, and, wrapping yourself in your comforter, settle in next to the blaze, trying to see if your host was still hanging around or had disappeared into the rain again. The humming you had heard earlier is gone, replaced by the soothing sound of the rain. It was funny, you thought, how the rain can be so dark and punishing when you are out in it, but once you are warm and dry inside, it was a comfort. Your thoughts continue to drift, to rain and oceans and blue, blue blood, and you struggle to stay awake but already the warmth was oozing into your brain, making it slow and tired. You found your eyes drooping, and soon you were more than half asleep, lazily pulling at the threads of the blanket wrapped around your feet in a vain attempt to fend off sleep.

You would swear your eyes were only closed for a moment, but the next time you opened them, Ralph was crouched next to you, adding a few more slivers of wood to the dying fire. His clothes, a torn and stained gardening uniform, seemed nearly dry, his hair had dried in a soft, wavy way that would have made him look young and approachable if not for the gruesome scar on the side of his face. He begins to rise but starts when he notices you staring.

“Oh! Hi there, Ralph didn’t mean to wake you, he’ll go back to the other room now.” You smile sleepily at him, the constant nervousness about him not quite registering.

“You don’t need to leave, not if you don’t want to. I don’t mind the company.” After a moment of hesitation, he awkwardly settles down at the other side of the sprawl of blankets, hunched slightly. You wonder what exactly it was that happened to him to make him like this, and whether anything happened to the people that hurt him.

“Ralph doesn’t mind company either. He misses having a family, it’s nice to have someone again.” His tone is quiet, wistful, and it sends a pang to your heart. He’s lonely.

“I’m glad I’m here, rather than out in the rain.” You smile, but he doesn’t notice, still poking at the fire.

“Ralph is glad you’re here too.” He seems to get lost staring at the fire, expression torn between warmth and something else, hands occasionally twitching, sending bursts of embers into the air.

“Who gave you that scar, Ralph?” Your question breaks the companionable silence. His hands freeze, and his gaze slips over to you.

“Why you want to know, hmm? Do you want to laugh at Ralph?” He tries to rile you up, or something, and you open your mouth to reassure him, but then he sags slightly, putting the poker down. “Sorry. Humans, a group of them —Ralph was just doing his job, wasn’t bothering anybody, no, no—they just came and took him away, and beat him until—until they were bored.” His face and LED flicker, like he’s seeing it again, and you reach out a hand to put on his knee. He flinches, but then relaxes into your touch. “Ralph was lost, didn’t know where he was, and he checked a lot of houses before he found this one.” He looks down, at your hand, and purses his lips. “What—what about you? Ralph doesn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine, it’s only fair. My boyfriend, Nathan, he came home drunk, drunker than usual, talking about how androids were going to take his job or something. He was slurring so bad I could barely understand what he was saying.” You can remember it, distinctly, the stink of alcohol on his breath, palms sweating as he cornered you, and you have to struggle to swallow down a wash of fear at the memory. “Normally he just gets pissed and then passes out but something was different, I guess I said something and he—he grabbed me.” You bite your lip, struggling to go on, but then Ralph’s damaged palm is resting on top of your hand, and you stop.

“You don’t have to say anymore, Ralph understands. Talking makes it feel real again.” He smiles, and then gets up, awkwardly patting you on the shoulder, as if unsure what to do with the sudden seriousness in the room. “Sleep. You should do that. It’s important.” Then he’s gone, off to the other room, and you can hear him muttering faintly, as you begin to settle in to try and rest. He’s nice, if not odd and obviously traumatized, but apart from his occasional moments of fear-driven outbursts, the raw quality of how he acts is refreshing. And, you have to admit it, he’s kinda cute.

So, like that, next to the crackling fire, you begin to drift of, accompanied by the muffled humming of your awkward host.

If you dream, you don’t remember it, thoughts preoccupied with the blue-stained android with the shy smile.


End file.
